


we have learnt not to rely on you and not on anyone else

by avosettas



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Crosstale Sans (Undertale), Hurt/Comfort, Killer Sans (Undertale) - Freeform, Killer Sans/Crosstale Sans (Undertale), M/M, kross - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29912577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avosettas/pseuds/avosettas
Summary: Killer stares at his soul until the red light radiating from it burns his eyes, and then throws an arm over his face and laughs until he's sobbing. Or maybe he's crying with mirth, he isn't quite sure anymore.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 98





	we have learnt not to rely on you and not on anyone else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zephyred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyred/gifts).



> title from "you'll need those fingers for crossing" by los campesinos!

His eye sockets stick when he opens them. It's the first sign that something is wrong. 

Killer groans and turns over gracelessly, tangling himself in the blankets. The tar smears over his face, and when it finds its way into his mouth, as tears always somehow do, it's tasteless but horrible in a way that he can't quite place. 

He twists again, unintentionally confirming that Cross is no longer in bed - if he was, he'd have put a stop to all of this tossing and turning. Killer frowns, and then manages a wobbly grin, because he isn't sure what he should be feeling. 

Not that he ever is, but it's much easier to figure it out when his soul is _almost_ working the way it should be.

It pulses steadily above his sternum when he turns once more to lay on his back. The circular shape is almost mocking in its steadiness, but Killer only grins wider. It's all he knows how to do with these underdeveloped emotions. 

Killer stares at his soul until the red light radiating from it burns his eyes, and then throws an arm over his face and laughs until he's sobbing. Or maybe he's crying with mirth, he isn't quite sure anymore.

He hardly hears the door open, but he certainly hears Cross's quiet "Hey, Kills." 

"hiya, criss-cross," he wheezes. "bet the boss sent you, huh." 

Cross is silent for a moment, and Killer doesn't bother to uncover his sockets to look at him. The bed creaks as Cross sits down, but Killer still doesn't want to see his look of pity. 

"Yeah," Cross admits after a moment. "But I'd have come earlier if I'd know you weren't doing well." 

Killer takes a deep breath through his nose, and then flings his arm away. It slaps against the mattress with a force that makes him break into startled laughter. And he was right; Cross's look of pity makes him want to _puke_. 

So he keeps laughing, and this time he _knows_ that he isn't crying from an identifiable emotion; he's just crying because it's all his body knows how to do, now. 

Even when he calms down, Cross is just sitting there, watching him. He waits a moment, before slowly pulling Killer from his laying position to a slumped over, sitting one. 

Killer stares at him. He feels like hollow - like those melons Horror grew in the summer, scooping out their insides slowly and methodically with a spoon. Except it feels like whoever scooped out his insides used a knife, instead. 

He startles when his skull knocks into Cross's shoulder, though Cross seemed to expect it - he huffs a quiet laugh, pulling Killer close with a loose grip. Even in this state, Killer can appreciate that; Cross knows that he likes to have an exit available. 

It's not needed, though. Killer sags against him easily, and with his forehead pressed to Cross's shoulder, everything is illuminated red, like some sort of dream state. 

Cross hauls him closer, and Killer tucks his face against Cross's neck. Even then, Cross manages to work a finger to his cheek, thumbing away the tar running from his sockets. 

"I love you," he says quietly, thumb following the stained tracks on Killer's face. "I love you," he repeats in response to the wordless sound the other releases against his shoulder, a combination of a sob and a disbelieving laugh. 

"dunno why," Killer says, nearly voiceless with ~~a lack of~~ emotion. He wishes his soul would _choose_ ; he feels overwhelmed and understimulated all at once, like he's feeling nothing and everything, both less and more than he should be. 

Cross hums, and the noise rattles around his skull pleasantly like a purr. And then Cross _does_ start purring, and Killer presses as close to him as he can, trying to absorb all the love that Cross is giving off with that simple action. 

"Plenty to love," he answers once Killer unconsciously begins purring in response. His eye sockets have lidded, like a blissed-out cat, and it feels like they won't stay open. "Would prefer me to list alphabetically, or in the order that I noticed each thing?" Cross quips, his frown turning up a bit. 

"don't," Killer says, but he has to admit that the joke _did_ help to cheer him up. "think i'd start crying even harder." 

"I'd prefer if you didn't," Cross replies, stroking beneath his eye sockets once more. Killer bristles, but then deflates as he continues, "I hate seeing you upset, especially since you can't exactly control it." 

"sorry," he mumbles, trying to hide his face further in the warm, dark space created by Cross's hood. 

Cross's purr thunders through Killer, a soothing vibration. "There isn't anything to be sorry for." 

The simple statement makes him feel like crying again, but he hates crying. Hates being reduced to a lump that Cross feels the need to care for, for some reason. So instead, he breathes shakily into Cross's shoulder, pressing his face further into his hood. 

Cross's fingers caress his cervical vertebrae gently, just trailing over the bones slowly, almost light enough for Killer to consider it ticklish. His other hand is a steady weight on the small of Killer's back, warm as he just barely moves his thumb to rub calming circles on his spine. 

"sorry," he repeats, muffled by Cross's shoulder and hood. He still feels like a horrible - like a lumpy, air bubble-filled bowl of cake mix, the kind Dust had tried to make for Horror's birthday. He'd failed miserably, and the cake had been horrible. 

Every single one of Killer's emotions is just bubbling under the surface of _empty_ that fills the metaphorical mixing bowl, little air bubbles of happiness and big flour-like lumps of sadness. 

"I don't mind taking care of you," Cross says, and then repeats, more firmly this time, "You don't have anything to be sorry for, Killer." 

He wonders what shape his soul is in, now. Really, he can't feel it wobble in form, but sometimes he thinks he does. 

It had been circular before. Killer hopes it's more normal looking, now, with Cross's kind words. 

"...thanks, criss-cross," he mumbles, instead of pulling back to look. Better to wonder than to be disappointed. 

Besides, Cross's purring is making it hard to keep his sockets open. He closes them slowly, sagging into Cross's hold further. Hopefully, when he wakes up, he'll feel better. And if not, he has no doubt that Cross will still be holding him, ready to help him through it. 

Knowing that, he already feels better.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter @avosettas


End file.
